Category Archives: gardening

flower, gardening

Tove Jansson

Every now and then a plant arrives in the garden that immediately draws attention. This summer, that honour belongs to Rosa pimpinellifolia ‘Tove Jansson’. I planted it this spring, and although it is still settling into its new home, it has already made a memorable impression.


The flowers are unlike anything else among my roses. The colour combination is remarkably bright and cheerful, with vivid yellow petals edged and blended with brilliant shades of red. The contrast is striking, especially on sunny days when the blooms seem to glow in the light. Even from a distance, the flowers catch the eye and bring a welcome burst of colour to the garden.


There is one small disappointment. Each flower lasts only a day before fading. Just as you begin to admire a newly opened bloom, it is already nearing the end of its brief performance. Yet perhaps that fleeting beauty is part of its charm. The flowers are not meant to linger. Instead, they encourage you to appreciate them while they are at their best. Thankfully, the shrub continues to produce new blooms, ensuring that there is always something fresh to enjoy.


Roses are not always easy plants in my garden. The soil is not especially rich, and some varieties would certainly prefer better growing conditions. Fortunately, Rosa pimpinellifolia ‘Tove Jansson’ is known for being less demanding than many modern roses. It seems content enough where it is planted, and so far it has shown healthy growth despite the limitations of the site.


One of the reasons I chose this rose was its reputation for hardiness. In northern gardens, winter survival is always an important consideration. While it is still too early to judge how it will perform after a full winter, I am feeling optimistic. The plant appears vigorous and well adapted, and I am hopeful that it will return next year stronger than ever.


This year’s Midsummer has been bright and beautiful, and the rose has fitted perfectly into the season. Its fiery flowers seem to capture the warmth and light of the longest days of the year. Even though each bloom lasts only a short time, the overall display has been both memorable and uplifting.


As with any new addition to the garden, there is still much to learn. For now, I am simply enjoying the colours and watching how the plant develops. If it continues to thrive and comes through the winter as expected, I suspect Tove Jansson may become one of the most distinctive roses in my collection. It has certainly made an impressive start.

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flower, gardening

Chatelaine

Some flowers attract attention from a distance, while others invite you to come a little closer. Lupinus polyphyllus ‘Chatelaine’, a member of the Russell Lupin group, is one of those flowers. Its tall flower spikes may not always be the largest in the garden, but there is a grace and elegance about them that makes me stop and admire them every summer.


The blooms are a beautiful blend of pink shades, creating a soft display that stands out among the greens of early summer. As the flower spikes sway gently in the breeze, they bring movement and colour to the garden. On warm days they attract bees and other pollinators, and I often find myself watching the activity around them for a few moments longer than I intended.


Over the years I have grown many different flowers, but some become favourites simply because they never disappoint. Chatelaine is one of those plants. It returns faithfully each year and produces its flowers just as the garden is beginning to reach its summer peak. In a northern garden, where the growing season always feels too short, dependable plants become especially valuable.


One of the things I appreciate most about this lupin is how easily it fits into a mixed flower bed. It combines beautifully with many other summer-flowering perennials without competing for attention. Some flowers demand to be the centre of attention, but Chatelaine seems content to complement its neighbours. The result is a natural and balanced display that looks different every year depending on the weather and the surrounding plants.


Every growing season brings its own surprises. One summer may be warm and sunny, another cool and rainy. Yet the garden always finds a way to reward patience. Even familiar plants reveal new details when viewed from season to season. Sometimes it is the abundance of flowers, sometimes the colours appear richer than usual, and sometimes it is simply the pleasure of seeing a favourite perennial emerge once again after a long winter.


At the cottage by the lake, summer days seem to pass at a gentler pace. Morning coffee on the terrace and quiet moments spent looking at the flower beds have become small traditions that I look forward to every year. Chatelaine fits perfectly into those moments. It is not an extravagant flower, but it has a quiet beauty that never fails to catch my eye.


As June turns into July and the garden reaches one of its most colourful periods, I often find myself appreciating plants like Chatelaine the most. They may not be the rarest or most unusual flowers, but they bring reliability, beauty and a sense of continuity to the garden. Year after year they return, bloom and remind me why I enjoy gardening so much.


Lupinus polyphyllus ‘Chatelaine’ is one of those plants whose beauty grows with familiarity. The more summers I spend with it, the more I appreciate its charm. Sometimes the most memorable flowers are not the loudest ones, but those that quietly return and make each summer feel complete.

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flower, gardening

Columbine

If I had to choose just one flower, it would definitely be columbine.


Aquilegia, as it’s known in Latin, is not the most showy plant, nor the rarest, but for me it carries something no catalogue variety ever could. It has been here for as long as I can remember – and long before that. This is the same old variety my grandma once had growing in her garden, and it has now been part of this place for more than eighty years.


There is something quite special about that thought. Plants come and go, borders change, and new varieties arrive every year, but this one has simply stayed. Or perhaps more accurately, it has quietly moved.


Columbine is not a plant that stays politely where you put it. Individual plants only bloom for a few years in one spot before fading away, but the plant continues by setting seed and starting again somewhere new. One spring you notice it in one corner, and a few years later it appears in another. It disappears, and then returns as if nothing ever happened. It finds its own place.


That is exactly how mine behaves. It never really leaves the garden, but it never fully stays still either.


My earliest gardening memories are tied to this plant. As a child, I used to collect the seeds and scatter them around the garden without much thought. I planted them wherever I felt like it – along the paths, between other plants, sometimes even in places where nothing else seemed to grow. And very often, they did.


There is something generous about columbine. It doesn’t expect perfection. It grows in sun or light shade, finds small gaps, and quietly settles in. It fills that early summer moment in the garden, after the spring bulbs have faded and before the stronger summer flowers take over. The blooms are light and slightly nodding, with their distinctive spurs, delicate but never fragile.


Over time, the plants have changed a little. The colours are not always exactly the same from year to year. That is part of their charm. New seedlings appear with small variations, different shades or slightly altered shapes. But the original feeling of the plant remains – something familiar, something continuous.


The name Aquilegia comes from the Latin word aquila, meaning eagle, referring to the shape of the flower spurs. It’s an interesting detail, but for me the plant has always been something softer. I still think of it as my grandma’s flower.


Every year, when the first blooms open, it feels like a quiet return. Nothing dramatic, nothing demanding attention. Just a simple reminder that something has continued, through seasons and years, without needing much care from me.


These days, I don’t try to control where it grows. I let it decide. It always finds a place that works.
And maybe that is exactly why it has lasted this long. Not because it was carefully planned or protected, but because it has been allowed to move, to change, and to belong in its own way.


I’m just glad it’s still here.

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flower, gardening

Russell Red

This summer, one of the flowers quietly catching my attention by the lake is the Russell Red lupin. The colour is slightly different from what I expected. It is not just red, but more of a mixture of red and pink, changing a little depending on the light. Sometimes it feels soft, almost faded, and at other times it shows a deeper, warmer tone.


I haven’t really had this colour before, and that is probably why it stands out. Still, it fits naturally into the surroundings. It does not feel too bright or too strong, just somewhere in between.


The Russell varieties are something I have come to appreciate over time. There is something reliable about them. They grow steadily, form their tall spikes, and then bloom in a way that feels generous. Even this red–pink shade, which is new to me, has that same calm presence.


These lupins belong to the Russell group, usually classified as Lupinus × regalis, hybrids originally developed from Lupinus polyphyllus. They are known for their strong vertical growth and wide range of colours, which is probably why every plant feels slightly different.


One thing I like especially is how easy they are. Here in the north, that matters. You cannot expect every plant to survive without some thought. You have to plan where they go. If the place is wrong, they slowly disappear. But when they are happy, they manage well on their own.
This one started blooming early in the season and continues steadily. The flowers open from the bottom upwards, which keeps them going for a long time. Even when I am not here every day, I know they will manage without much attention.


I am still waiting for the others to bloom. With these lupins, there is always a bit of uncertainty. You never fully know what colours will come.
For now, this red and pink mix is enough. It brings a quiet variation to the garden and works beautifully with the open space by the lake. Not perfect, not planned too much—just growing as it happens.

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Pohjola’s Daughter

A few years ago, I planted my first rhododendrons with great anticipation. At the time, I chose three varieties that looked beautiful in the nursery—lush leaves, promising buds, and colors that felt almost exotic in a northern garden. They are still alive today, which in itself feels like a small victory, but they have never truly thrived. Each spring they wake slowly, cautiously, and their growth has remained modest. I’ve come to suspect that they simply are not quite hardy enough for our conditions.


Still, it is hard to give up on rhododendrons. When they bloom, even modestly, they bring a completely different atmosphere to the garden—something soft, almost woodland-like, with their deep green leaves and layered flowers.


So this year, I decided to try again.


This time, I searched more carefully for varieties known for better hardiness in northern climates. Instead of choosing only by appearance, I focused on durability and resilience. I ended up bringing home two new plants, both slightly different in character but selected with the same hope: that they might adapt better to our winters.


One of them is already rewarding me, (Rhododendron ’Pohjola’s Daughter’).


It is now in bloom, and I find myself returning to look at it several times a day. The flowers are arranged with a quiet symmetry, forming a neat and balanced shape that feels almost deliberate. There is something satisfying about its structure—nothing wild or sprawling, but calm and composed.


Of course, early success in summer does not guarantee anything. Here in the north, the true test always comes later. Snow, wind, and long periods of cold will decide whether this plant can truly belong here.


Still, I allow myself a bit of optimism.


It would be wonderful to have rhododendrons that not only survive, but bloom reliably year after year. A plant that settles in, strengthens over time, and becomes part of the garden rather than a yearly uncertainty.


For now, I will simply enjoy this moment—this season of flowers, symmetry, and promise.


And in a few years, we will know the answer.

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flower, gardening

Tahiti

This spring felt like a small success already, simply because Tahiti made it through the winter again. There’s always a quiet moment of relief when the first leaves come up, especially after a colder season. You never quite take it for granted.

Tahiti (Narcissus ‘Tahiti’) is easily the brightest daffodil I have. The colour is not shy in any way—strong yellow with a deeper, almost glowing orange in the centre. When the flowers open, they don’t look delicate or minimal like some narcissus. Instead, they feel full and slightly wild, with layers that catch the light differently depending on the time of day.

Here, they begin to flower in May and continue through the month. It’s a time when the garden is starting to settle, but still feels fresh and unfinished. Many plants are only just finding their place again after winter, and that’s where Tahiti stands out—it doesn’t wait quietly in the background.

For a few weeks, they bring that strong colour into the garden, and then they’re gone again for the season. By summer, they’ve already done their part. I like knowing that once May passes, the same bulbs will go on to spend the warmer months by the lake, resting and gathering strength for another year.

That rhythm suits them. A short, bright moment in spring, followed by a long, quiet stretch out of sight.

They’re also simple to live with. Like other daffodils, they don’t ask for much once planted. Autumn is the time to put the bulbs into the ground, and after that they take care of the rest. The leaves come and go, and while they may look untidy for a while after flowering, it’s part of the rhythm that keeps them returning each year.

Tahiti is not a quiet presence in the garden, but that’s exactly why I keep it. In May, when everything is beginning to take shape, it brings colour that feels confident and steady—something you can rely on each spring.

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Tete-a-Tete

At first glance, Tête-à-Tête daffodils (Narcissus ‘Tête-à-Tête’) can seem almost too delicate for the Finnish spring. They are compact, with short stems and cheerful yellow flowers that lean slightly to one side, as if in quiet conversation. It’s easy to assume they belong in sheltered spots or only in pots brought out for display. But over the years, I’ve come to see that they are tougher than they look.

These miniature daffodils are often among the first to appear once the snow retreats. Sometimes they push through cold soil that still feels more like early April than spring. A light frost doesn’t seem to worry them much. Their leaves may bend, and the flowers may look a little tired for a moment, but when the temperature rises again, they simply continue. There is a kind of quiet resilience in that.

In the garden, I’ve planted them in several places – along the edge of a path, near the base of a shrub, and even in spots where the soil is not particularly improved. They return reliably each year, forming small clumps that slowly grow bigger. They don’t demand attention, but they reward it if given. A bit of well-draining soil and some light in spring is enough.

What I especially appreciate about Tête-à-Tête is how naturally they fit into the early season. At a time when the garden still feels sparse, their bright yellow brings structure and rhythm. They pair well with other early growers, like crocuses or the first emerging perennials, but they are also quite content on their own.

In pots, they are just as dependable. Even when left outside through fluctuating spring weather, they tend to perform without complaint. If anything, they seem shaped by those changing conditions.

There is no showiness here, nothing overly dramatic. Just small flowers, steady growth, and the sense that spring is moving forward—slowly but surely.

And perhaps that is their strength. Tête-à-Tête doesn’t try to stand out by size or boldness. Instead, it simply returns, year after year, doing exactly what it’s meant to do.

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flower, gardening

Sunflower

Up here in the north, sunflowers (Helianthus annuus) are not something I buy very often. Not because I don’t like them—quite the opposite—but somehow they feel like a plant made for warmer places, long summers, and endless sunshine. Our season is shorter, more uncertain, and I’ve always wondered if they truly settle in here the way they should.

A few days ago, though, I noticed them at the garden centre. Tall, confident, already in bloom—bright yellow faces turning gently toward the light. They stood there like small pieces of summer itself. I paused, of course. Admired them. But the price tag made the decision easy enough: I walked away.

Or so I thought.

When I returned a few days later, things had changed. The same sunflowers were still there, but now slightly wilder, a little less polished—and marked down. The kind of quiet invitation that is hard to resist. This time I didn’t hesitate for long. I brought home two plants and suddenly I was carrying a bit of that golden warmth.

This variety is especially lovely. Instead of a single large flower, it produces many blooms—branching out into smaller, softer “plumes” of yellow. It feels lighter somehow, less formal than the traditional tall sunflower with its bold central disk. There’s something generous about it, the way it flowers again and again.

They’ve now been planted at the summer place, where the light is open and the evenings long. Even in these northern conditions, they already seem at ease, catching the sun whenever it appears and holding onto it.

Sunflowers, in general, are surprisingly adaptable. Although they are often associated with heat, they are fast growers and can manage well if given enough light and a sheltered spot. Their roots run deep, and once established, they carry a certain resilience—something I perhaps underestimate every year.

And there is something else about them too. They bring a different kind of mood into the garden. Not delicate like violets or nostalgic like geraniums, but cheerful, almost bold. They don’t ask quietly for attention—they offer it freely.

So perhaps I will not wait so long next time. Even here, even in the north, there is room for a little more sunlight.

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Dahlia

t is far too early for dahlias (dahlia). I know that, and every spring I remind myself of it. Nights can still be cold, the soil barely warmed, and frost is never completely out of the question. And yet, when I saw these two dahlias, already blooming in bright, confident colours, all common sense quietly stepped aside.

They were impossible to ignore. Strong stems, fresh green leaves, and flowers already fully open — a promise of summer standing right there in front of me. I didn’t plan on buying dahlias this early, but plans are easily forgotten when temptation looks this good. So, of course, they came home with me.

Instead of the balcony, I planted them straight at the summer cottage. It felt like the right place for such an early gamble. The days are longer there, the light softer, and even if the nights turn cold, I hope the location will give them a fighting chance. Gardening in the north often feels like a series of small risks taken with crossed fingers. Sometimes they fail, but sometimes they reward you generously.

If all goes well, these two will grow into bright plumes of colour that last all summer. That is the hope, at least. Dahlias are good at rewarding patience — once they get going, they rarely hold back.

ahlias belong to the Asteraceae family and originate from Central America, particularly Mexico. They were originally grown not just for beauty but also for practical uses, long before becoming garden favourites. Today there are thousands of varieties, ranging from small, neat pompons to large, dramatic dinner-plate flowers. Colours cover almost every shade imaginable, from soft pastels to deep, intense reds and purples.

Despite their lush appearance, dahlias are not especially demanding. They like sun, regular watering, and well-drained soil. What they do dislike is frost. In colder climates, tubers usually need to be lifted and stored over winter, making them a seasonal commitment rather than a one-time planting.

That’s part of their charm. Dahlias ask you to be present — to plant, to wait, to protect, and eventually to let go when autumn arrives. For now, though, it’s spring, and optimism comes easily. I’ll keep an eye on the weather forecasts and hope that this early start turns into a long, colourful summer.

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Petunia

It’s still a little early for petunias (petunia) here, and I know it. The nights can surprise you, and one cold snap is enough to undo all the enthusiasm of a warm afternoon. But after a few genuinely sunny days, I’ve decided to take the risk this year. Sometimes it just feels right to get started.

I spent part of the weekend visiting my mum in the town centre for Mother’s Day. We had a quiet, lovely visit — a walk through familiar streets and, of course, a stop at a flower shop. It’s become a bit of a habit this time of year. I don’t really plan what I’ll buy, but I always seem to come home with something. And more often than not, it’s petunias.

There’s something reassuring about them. With so many plants, I find myself hesitating — will they cope if I’m not there every day, will they need more care than I can give? But petunias are different. They’re reliable in a way that fits perfectly with summer cottage life. When the weather turns warm and dry, they don’t give up easily. They keep flowering, even if watering is a bit irregular.

That’s probably why I return to them year after year. I might try something new each season, but petunias are always part of the mix. They fill the pots quickly, soften the edges of planters, and bring just enough colour without feeling too demanding. And once they settle in, they seem to take care of themselves surprisingly well.

So here I am, a bit ahead of the season, with a few pots already planted. I’ll keep an eye on the forecast and be ready to move them if needed, but I’m choosing not to wait this time. After a long winter, it feels good to start.

And if nothing else, seeing those first petunia blooms outside — even a little too early — is a reminder that summer is on its way.

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